The house I left is buttoned up tight tonight, its orphaned olive trees gone liquid in the wind. I’m a trespasser for even remembering. Continue reading “Mirrors eat remaining light”
“It smells like an old crypt,” Noor said as the central heating system sluggishly started up for the first time that autumn. Stray leaves whispered in the ducts.
“Smelled a crypt before?” Khaldoun asked his new wife. Continue reading “The American House”